


Loose Thread

by Sgr_A



Category: Wheel of Time - Robert Jordan
Genre: Alternate Universe, Gen, Insert Asmodean Where Appropriate, Major Character Undeath, somebody please take the wheel - Freeform, there's a lot of a dead body walking around?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-04-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 11:44:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6283216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sgr_A/pseuds/Sgr_A
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Rand al'Thor's strong ta'veren tendencies combine with the astonishing determination Asmodean has to survive. Things happen.<br/>Heavy on copypaste from the original books.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. No wine for the wicked

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first dive into fanfiction since 2011 so it basically involves a lot of screaming. It also leaves so much to be desired.  
> Dedicated to [pettymotives](http://www.pettymotives.tumblr.com), the most supportive noodle. Later chapters are very, very much inspired by [Tremaile's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Tremaile/pseuds/Tremaile) existing [series. ](http://archiveofourown.org/series/95312)

Tucking his harp under his arm, Asmodean drifted away from Mat and Aviendha. He enjoyed playing, but not for a pair who did not listen, much less appreciate. He was not sure what had happened that morning, and not sure he wanted to be sure. Too many Aiel had expressed surprise at seeing him, had claimed they had seen him dead; he did not want details. There was a long gash down the wall in front of him. He knew what made that sharp edge, that surface as slick as ice, smoother than any hand could have polished in a hundred years. Idly but with a shiver, too he wondered whether being reborn in this fashion made him a new man. He did not think so. Immortality was gone. That was a gift of the Great Lord; he used that name in his head, whatever al'Thor demanded on his tongue. That was proof enough that he was himself.

Immortality gone he knew it must be imagination, yet sometimes he thought he could feel time dragging at him, pulling him toward a grave he had never thought to meet and drawing the little of saidin he could was like drinking sewage. He was hardly sorry Lanfear was dead. Rahvin either, but Lanfear especially, for what she had done to him. He would laugh when each of the others died, too, and most for the last. It was not that he had been reborn as a new man at all, but he would cling to that tuft of grass on the cliff's brink as long as he could. The roots would give way eventually, the long fall would come, but until then he was still alive.

He approached a small door, intending to find his way to the pantry. There should be some decent wine. Decent enough. He reached for the doorknob.

"Natael." Rand's voice carried through the hallway as its owner approached, oddly not surrounded by a flurry of Maidens.

Asmodean hesitated for a moment before pulling his hand back and gracefully bowing to the Dragon Reborn.

"I take it your meeting with Lord Bashere went well?"

"About as well as it can. Come, I need a bard by my side." Rand spoke in a far more amiable manner than usual. Was the momentary lapse of Asmodean's life the reason for it? Another unpleasant but quite solid reminder of how much his life truly, absolutely depended on this boy.

Asmodean threw one last mournful glance towards what was hopefully a pantry and again bowed, quite modestly this time.

"As my Lord Dragon commands."

The said Lord Dragon seemed for a moment as if something was very, very unusual indeed, but Asmodean didn't ask and he didn't provide an explanation so they just walked down the hallway, deeper into the Caemlyn royal palace, their footsteps the only sound for a while. Asmodean felt an odd kind of tearing, a very brief burning sensation on his chest, and then it was gone. Wondering what it was, he started absently playing with the strings of the harp as they walked, producing gentle, monotone sounds that still seemed to sound the way the abstract idea of gratitude would were it played on a musical instrument. Rand al'Thor's footsteps lost rhythm for just a moment, then he just shook his head and kept walking with Jassin Natael the gleeman gliding behind him, consumed with shame, the patched-up cape gently swirling with his movement, face for a moment contorted as if he had tasted something very sour and hands very, very, very still.

It wasn't long, though, until the silence pressing down became too unbearable, the deep feeling of _wrongness_ too uncomfortable, and he started playing again, letting his music gently fill up the hallways, curl around the tapestries and reach the tall windows, simple and clean but still not strong enough to spill out through them, sad and calm and not conveying anything beyond it. Asmodean was quite focused on what he was playing this time around. No more surprises, hopefully. No more surprises.

 

* * *

 

Another surprise, however, came during the second conversation between Rand and Lord Bashere, a small, threatening sort of a man. The kind that had enough danger for three people packed in a tiny body and was aware of it. Asmodean was sitting on the steps of the throne, drawing some kind of background noise for the conversation and wondering absently whether he would react just as bad as Sammael to being called short when what was being discussed sank in and he sat straight, listening intently. A part of him wondered why it seemed the room was kinda cold.

"I told you already, Lord Bashere, and I will tell you again - you cannot have Mazrim Taim. It would be hypocritical of me. I can channel. Why should another man be hunted down and killed or gentled because he can do what I can? I will announce that any man who can touch the True Source, any man who wants to learn, can come to me and have my protection. The Last Battle is coming, Lord Bashere. There may not be time for any of us to go mad before, and I would not waste one man for the risk anyway. When the Trollocs came out of the Blight in the Trolloc Wars, they marched with Dreadlords, men and women who wielded the Power for the Shadow. We will face that again at Tarmon Gai’don. I don’t know how many Aes Sedai will be at my side, but I won’t turn away any man who channels if he will march with me. Mazrim Taim is mine, Lord Bashere, not yours.”

Asmodean very subtly played his music quieter, trying not to miss a word of what went on.

“You have taken Caemlyn." Was Lord Bashere's very, very flat response. "I hear that Tear is yours, and Cairhien soon will be if it is not already. Do you mean to conquer the world with your Aiel and your army of men channeling the One Power?”

“If I must.” Rand said it just as levelly. “We need peace. Time before the Trollocs come, before the Dark One breaks free, time to ready ourselves. If the only way I can find time and peace for the world is to impose it, I will. I don’t want to, but I will.”

Asmodean stopped listening there, playing The March of Death on instinct. His fingers felt oddly cold.

 

* * *

 

That night, Asmodean dremed of a death. Not death in general, just a very very specific death over and over. A door opens with a gust of wind. Someone is waiting for him. Recognition. His eyes widen.

"You? No!"

White hot flame, the feeling of every fiber of his being burned down so not even ashes remain, the fire so hot he keeps burning even though there is nothing to burn anymore, there is a faint knowledge of his existence, his past, his future, all of it turning into dust, never to exist again. A door opens with a gust of wind. Someone is waiting for him. Recognition. His eyes widen.

"You? No!"

White hot flame, the feeling of every fiber of his being burned down so not even ashes remain, the fire so hot he keeps burning even though there is nothing to burn anymore, there is a faint knowledge of his existence, his past, his future, all of it turning into dust, never to exist again.

A door opens with a gust of wind. Someone is waiting for him. Recognition. His eyes widen.

Asmodean woke up with a scream, feeling the fire in his bones, the overwhelming feeling of not being supposed to be here, the taste of death strong in his mouth. It all fades in a heartbeat and he falls back on the wet sheets, shaky and pale and with a small groan of pain as his stiff, aching muscles were forced to move and insides seemed to twist and complain. He could almost feel his stomach softening somehow, not a pleasant feeling at all, and by all accounts he should not have even been able to move his cold, cold fingers. But everything moved just right.

"Perhaps the  _saidin_ is getting to me" he mumbled, nose wrinkling at a sudden gust of air that reeked like a grave, and turned to his side trying to fall asleep again.

A door opens with a gust of wind. Someone is waiting for him. Recognition. His eyes widen.

"You? No!"

White hot flame, the feeling of every fiber of his being burned down so not even ashes remain, the fire so hot he keeps burning even though there is nothing to burn anymore, there is a faint knowledge of his existence, his past, his future, all of it turning into dust, never to exist again. A door opens with a gust of wind. Someone is waiting for him. Recognition. His eyes widen.

The morning sun found him sitting on his bed. The harp lay over his lap untouched, heavy dark circles were around his eyes. Other than that, other than the expression of someone about to throw up, he looked quite fine.


	2. Two Dragons

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Was An Attempt pt. 2 because i lost the original (which was much better). The heaviest on copypaste so far. :( Like, 80% of it is copypaste. I just wanted to get it over and done with.

Asmodean sat on a bench in the palace courtyard, listening to the energetic sounds he produced from the strings of his harp, to the sharp sound of clashing practice swords, managing to mostly ignore the dull pain that ripped apart every single muscle in his body whenever he moved the slightest bit.

Which was rather simple, as the pain had been there, constantly, for about two weeks now. A complex kind of pain, which could best be described as his bones suddenly remembering there are actually solid muscles attached to them and protesting against the fact, very loudly. It was, however, better than the terrifying percieved stiffness that was there about a month ago - he was, quite literally, unable to move. Except he was, with immense amounts of determination, but it felt as if he was crushing his own body every single time he tried to bend his arm. Rand ended up screaming in frustration at him about how lazy he was, at which he whined through clenched jaw about catching a bug and not really being in the best state to move.

Bloating came after. Everything, quite literally everything was better than bloating. The three thousand years of nightmares while imprisoned in Shayol Gul was better than his insides feeling as if every single tissue was inflated, his body wanted to burst with gas except it couldn't, because it was literally in the way. And because there was nothing to burst with. On the outside, he looked just fine, if a little pale and a little more exhausted. The dreams of a death continued.

Asmodean shuddered at the joint memory of it all. It sucked, but so did the pain that shot through his entire body at the motion. Though, the pain certainly sucked a little less.

Down there, it seemed that Rand had emerged victorious, again, and was surrounded with his personal army of professional butt sniffers. The kind of people who flocked around Gaebril, technically Rahvin, an entire gallery of the most revolting faces, all of them were sadly passed on to his bane, merely changed the person they were sucking up to and kept living as they did. Like a terrible, terrible joke from beyond the grave that Asmodean couldn't not smile at. It was awful.

With loud suddenness not typical of him, Lord Bashere's man Tumad rushed in and the only people of some importance, Rand and Bashere himself, immediately turned their attention to him.

“There is a man has presented himself at the gates,” Tumad said uneasily. “He says. . . . It is Mazrim Taim, my Lord Bashere.”

Asmodean's stomach sank, painfully it might be added, and he forced himself to his feet. A false dragon, a man who had channeled for ten years without succumbing to the taint, who escaped Aes Sedai. There was no guarantee one of his fellow Chosen didn't choose to change who he was playing as, and someone as obviously powerful as Taim would certainly not be scraping at the bottom of the barrel.

Rand stood very still, obviously debating on whether to hold onto saidin or not. Asmodean figured it wiser to not hold onto it himself, hoping vainly that he wouldn't be recognized in the worst case scenario. Laced with pain, he could still create music and he still didn't quite feel tired of his extremely shortened lifespan to be ready to let go just yet. There was a silent, almost tangible tension in the air as they awaited the dreaded arrival.

Finally the sound of boots echoed into the courtyard. Instead of becoming lighter, said tension just became even more tight, more comparable to the skin of a drum stretched dangerously close to the point of bursting. Tumad emerged into the sunlight first, then a rather tall black-haired man who, despite his obviously Saldaean features and garb of an Anodran merchant on hard times, managed to give off the air of a man from the Age of Legends. He walked proudly, no mean feat with four more of Bashere's men behind him, those almost straight, slightly serpentine blades bare and the points inches from his ribs. The heat hardly seemed to touch him. He looked more like a general taking a stroll in front of his troops than a prisoner.

Asmodean subconsciously changed the music he was playing to suit the man in front of him, slipping from a neutral, simple melody that simply filled the silence into something deeper, far more rich and full of variation, complex tones not played in over a thousand years. Music written in the Age of Legends, written for kings and awarded generals, which the mere appearance of Taim seemed to draw out of the back of his mind. Which was not necessarily a good thing, but not surprising either since most of his mental skills went into not buckling under the pain, constantly.

Taim glanced at him with a raised eyebrow and Asmodean stubbornly didn't look away, silently challenging him to, if he truly is a Chosen, recognize him and do whatever he wants.

A moment later, he realized what he was doing and looked away, face growing pale, faltering in his playing for a moment before stubbornly continuing. What was he doing? What in the world was he doing? Why isn't Rand saying anything? Asmodean stole a glance at him and barely managed to keep a straight face at Rand's inner battle to which his own with pain and stupidity was literally nothing in comparison, masterfully hidden behind another straight face.

Bashere took advantage of the silence.

"You say you're Mazrim Taim?" He sounded doubtful, and Rand and Asmodean momentarily looked at him in confusion. Was this Taim or not? Asmodean was then, in that moment, ready to scream.

The prisoner's mouth quirked in what might have been the beginning of a smile, and he rubbed his chin.

"I shaved, Bashere." His voice held more than a hint of mockery. Asmodean quietly inhaled, for that manner of speech was not reminiscent of any of the people he feared he might be. "It is hot this far south, or had you not noticed? Hotter than it should be, even here. Do you want proof of me? Shall I channel for you?"

His dark eyes flickered to Rand, momentarily to his bard, and then back to Bashere, whose face was growing darker by the minute.

"Perhaps not that, not now. I remember you. I had you beat at Irinjavar, until those visions appeared in the sky. But everyone knows that. What does everyone not know, that you and Mazrim Taim will?" Focused on Bashere, he seemed unaware of his guards, or their swords still hovering near his ribs. "I hear you hid what happened to Musar and Hachari and their wives." The mockery was gone; he was just relating what had happened, now. "They shouldn't have tried to kill me under a parley flag. I trust you found them good places as servants? All they'll really want to do now is serve and obey; they won't be happy otherwise. I could have killed them. They all four drew daggers."

"Taim," Bashere growled, hand darting for his hilt, "you . . . !"

Rand and Asmodean almost synchronously stepped in front of him, Rand seizing his wrist with the blade half-drawn. The guards' blades, Tumad's as well, were touching Taim now, very likely touching flesh the way they were shoved against his coat, but he did not flinch.

"Did you come to see me," Rand demanded, "or to taunt Lord Bashere? If you do it again, I'll let him kill you. My amnesty pardons what you've done, but it doesn't let you flaunt your crimes."

Taim studied Rand a moment before speaking.

"To see you. You were the one in the vision in the sky. They say it was the Dark One himself you fought."

"Not the Dark One," Rand said. Asmodean surpressed the urge to nod, more worried about Bashere. If Rand couldn't hold him back, if no Power was used, Taim would be a dead man. "He called himself Ba'alzamon, but I think he was Ishamael. I killed him later, in the Stone of Tear."

"I hear you've killed a number of the Forsaken. Should I call you my Lord Dragon? I have heard this lot use the title. Do you mean to kill all the Forsaken?"

A stupid thought appeared in Asmodean's head. Hopefully not, it whispered. Hopefully. Please don't.

"Do you know any other way to deal with them?" Rand asked. Damn it. "They die, or the world does. Unless you think they can be talked into abandoning the Shadow the way they abandoned the Light."

Asmodean wanted to laugh. Or cry. Here he was, in deathly pain, hoping Rand would say something that can be interpreted as amnesty. And Taim was just as unaffected by the very possible threat of being turned into a pin cushion, except with swords, as ever.

"Whatever your crimes are, Taim, they pale beside the Forsaken's." This got Asmodean's undivided attention "Have you ever tortured an entire city, made thousands of people assist in breaking each other slowly, in breaking their own loved ones? Semirhage did that, for no more reason than that she could, to prove she could, for the pleasure of it. Have you murdered children? Graendal did. She called it kindness, so they would not suffer after she enslaved their parents and carried them away."

Asmodean wondered was this a Dragon thing, knowing all that. How much did Rand know? Certainly more than everyone else, who seemed unsure of what to do with the knowledge, or even Taim who leaned forward listening as intently as a child.

"Did you throw people to Trollocs to eat? All the Forsaken did - prisoners who would not turn always went to the Trollocs, if they weren't murdered out of hand - but Demandred captured two cities just because he thought the people there had slighted him before he went over to the Shadow-"

Asmodean tuned him out, deciding that for the time being the pain in his limbs was a better thing to focus on, funny as that may sound, and wasn't listening all the way until

"- you've come to accept my pardon, to walk in the Light and submit to me, to battle the Dark One as hard as you ever battled anyone. The Forsaken are reeling; I mean to hunt them all down, eradicate them." Asmodean gave a small sigh, regretting deeply ever having tuned back in, "And you will help me. For that, you've earned your pardon. I tell you true, you'll probably earn it a hundred times over again before the Last Battle is done."

At last Bashere relaxed. Rand barely reacted but Asmodean deflated in relief and started slowly retreating back towards his bench. Taim only quirked an eyebrow in his direction.

"I don't see any reason to guard him so closely now." Rand said, with well concealed relief. "Put up your swords.

  
Slowly, Tumad and the others began sheathing their blades. Slowly, but they were doing it. Then Taim spoke, making Asmodean freeze where he was standing and soundlessly begin to pray. 

"Submit? I had thought more of a compact between us." Taim tilted his head, seemingly unaware that his words were the equivalent of throwing a fully grown fox into a chicken coop. "I would be the lesser partner, of course, yet I have had years more than you to study the Power. There is much I could teach you."

That is where you are wrong, Asmodean thought, at almost the same moment when Rand growled so forcefully it sent a jolt through his bones.

"No compact! No partners! I am the Dragon Reborn, Taim! Me! If you have knowledge I can make use of, I will, but you will go where I say, do as I say, when I say."

Without a pause Taim slipped to one knee.

"I submit to the Dragon Reborn. I will serve and obey." The corners of his mouth quivered again in that almost smile as he rose. Tumad gaped at him. Asmodean took a moment to become aware he was too and quickly put his features under control.

"That fast?" Rand said softly. The softness of silk thrown over steel. "You named yourself the Dragon Reborn, fought battles all over Saldaea, were only captured because you were knocked unconscious, and you give up this quickly? Why?"

"My Lord Dragon, I'm sure that's not... necessary...." Asmodean trailed away when he was suddenly the target of not one, but two people who called themselves Dragon at at least one point glaring daggers at him. And a man who could give Sammael a run for his money, both on the field of being fierce and being short.

Taim looked back towards Rand and shrugged. "What are my choices? To wander the world alone, friendless, hunted, while you rise to glory? That's supposing Bashere doesn't manage to kill me before I can leave the city, or your Aielwomen don't. Even if they don't, the Aes Sedai will corner me sooner or later; I doubt the Tower means to forget Mazrim Taim. Or I can follow you, and part of that glory will be mine."

For the first time he looked around, actually around, at his guards, at the Maidens, and shook his head as if he could not believe it.

"I might have been the one. How could I be sure otherwise? I can channel; I'm strong. What said I was not the Dragon Reborn? All I had to do was fulfill just one of the Prophecies."

"Like managing to be born on the slopes of Dragonmount?" Rand said coldly. "That was the first Prophecy to be met."

Taim's mouth quirked again. It really was not a smile; it never touched his eyes. "Victors write history. Had I taken the Stone of Tear, history would have shown I was born on Dragonmount, of a woman never touched by a man, and the heavens opened up in radiance to herald my coming. The sort of thing they say about you, now. But you took the Stone with your Aiel, and the world hails you as the Dragon Reborn. I know better than to stand against that; you are the one. Well, since the whole loaf won't be mine, I will settle for whatever slices fall my way."

"You may find honors, Taim, and you may not. If you begin to fret over them, think what happened to the others who've done what you did." Rand paused for a moment, to be sure the message sank in.

"Not a fate I would embrace," Taim said levelly, not hesitating a heartbeat.

"Then forget honors and remember the Last Battle. Everything I do is aimed at Tarmon Gai'don. Everything I tell you to do will be aimed at it. You will aim at it!"

"Of course." Taim spread his hands. "You are the Dragon Reborn. I don't doubt that; I acknowledge it publicly. We march toward Tarmon Gai'don. Which the Prophecies say you will win. And the histories will say that Mazrim Taim stood at your right hand."

Asmodean couldn't hold back a grin at that point. Taim commanded respect, even if for nothing else, for his ego.

"Perhaps," Rand told him curtly."The Light send your chance doesn't come too soon. Now. What knowledge do you have that I need? Can you teach men to channel? Can you test a man to know whether he can be taught?" 

"Your amnesty? Some fools have actually shown up to learn how to be like you and me?"

The discussion turned to technicalities, and Asmodean was satisfied to sit his old, crumbling bones down and provide some decent musical background for it. He didn't care much for the conversation, until-

Taim spoke again. “You don’t trust me yet. No reason you should. Yet. In time you will. In token of that future trust, I brought you a present.” From under his worn coat he pulled a rag-wrapped bundle a little larger than a man’s two fists together.

Asmodean squinted, trying hard to see. Rand took it and, hastily pulling away multicolored rags, revealed a disc the size of his palm, a disc like that on the scarlet banner above the palace, half white and half black, the ancient symbol of Aes Sedai, before the Breaking of the World. He ran his fingers across the mated teardrops. Asmodean let out a long breath. A Seal.

Which he proceeded to hold over his head, muttering hoarsely “Must break it now break them all break it break it break it.” 

Asmodean sprang to his feet, running towards him in blind terror that even drowned out the pain, but Bashere beat him to it, rising to the tips of his toes to put his hand on al'Thor's arms.

“I don’t know what that is,” he said quietly, “but I think maybe you should wait before deciding to break it. Eh?”

A long, long moment of silence later, Rand finally answered. "No. I don’t think I should.”

Bashere stepped back slowly, and Rand brought the seal down just as slowly. If anyone had thought Taim unflappable, they had proof to the contrary now. Shock painted the man’s face.

“Do you know what this is, Taim?” Rand demanded. “You must, or you wouldn’t have brought it to me. Where did you find it? Do you have another? Do you know where another is?”

“No,” Taim said, voice unsteady. Not with fear, precisely; more like a man who had felt a cliff unexpectedly crumbling under him and had somehow found himself back on solid ground. “That is the only one I. . . . I’ve heard all sorts of rumors since I escaped the Aes Sedai. Monsters leaping out of thin air. Strange beasts. Men talking to animals, and the animals talking back. Aes Sedai going mad like we’re supposed to. Whole villages going mad, killing each other. Some could be true. Half what I know to be true is no less insane. I heard some of the seals have been broken. A hammer could break that one.”

Bashere frowned, stared at the seal in Rand’s hands, then gasped. He understood. Asmodean gave a grim little nod and started back towards his bench.

“Where did you find it?” Rand repeated. 

“In the last place you would expect,” Taim replied, “which I suppose is the first place to look for the others. A decaying little farm in Saldaea. I stopped for water, and the farmer gave it to me. He was old, with no children or grandchildren to pass it on to, and he thought I was the Dragon Reborn. He claimed his family had guarded it more than two thousand years. Claimed they were kings and queens during the Trolloc Wars, and nobles under Artur Hawkwing. His tale could have been true. No more unlikely than finding that in a hut only a few days ride from the Blightborder.”

Rand nodded, then stooped to gather up the rags. Hurriedly rewrapping the seal, he handed it to Bashere.

“Guard this carefully. Nothing must happen to it.”

Bashere took the bundle reverently in both hands. Asmodean was unsure whether the man’s bow was for him or the seal. “For ten hours or ten years, it will be safe until you require it.”

Asmodean again decided it was the time to ignore the conversation, mostly in relief over not being the one to touch the damned thing or be anywhere near it. He plopped down on the bench, with a small relieved sigh after the pain in his legs subsided, and started plucking at the harp's strings again. Rand took Taim to the farm, which he also felt quite comfortable as far away from as possible, and he just sat there in the courtyard as shadows drew longer, dreading the oncoming sleepless night. There was not much attentive audience, but sometimes one's own aching limbs were audience enough.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A rundown of events up to the gray man incident.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me 2 weeks ago: YEAH!!!  
> me for the entire duration of two weeks: [record scratching noise]  
> please take this. its like a little kid going 'and then this happened and then that happened' and i want 2 die. I swear I don't always write this bad. gratutious copypasta at the later part.

Another month went by, and it was as if the Wheel decided to make up for the general uneventfullness of the previous ones and give Asmodean reasons to go gray along with feeling pretty dead in general.

To start with, two Aes Sedai with apparently the entire female population of The Dragon's home village had settled in Caemlyn at the very beginning. Al'Thor went alone to meet them. Asmodean absolutely wouldn't have complained over getting to avoid Aes Sedai, but the shepherd had returned, after traumatizing the girls, ripped his way through the palace like a typhoon and travelled to the farm, returning some time later sufficiently traumatized himself which he displayed by yelling at Asmodean to stop playing The Death March already and give him some silence. That was a first. Not that his aching fingers had anything against it.

Several hours later however, Rand had somehow managed to stutter out an apology. He refused to say much about the Aes Sedai, save for the fact Taim would keep his channelers away from them. Asmodean noticed the flicker of hatred that passed over Rand's face at the very mention of the false dragon and resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Rand made a few attempts at conversation, how was his health, did he eat, does he know anything about the Warder bond. Asmodean answered truthfully enough, manageable, yes, no not really it didn't exist during the Second Age. They tried breaching a few topics, Rand went to bed, Asmodean went to nurse his aching limbs and tired eyes not daring to fall asleep.

Exactly two days after the Aes Sedai incident, he was rather unpleasantly reminded of the fact that, not only were the other Forsaken were still out and about, but politics was still a thing that existed in this day and Age when the Andor nobles who had left while Rahvin was still lounging with his grubby fingers in the Caemlyn pie and returned five days prior finally found it in themselves to accept Rand's invitation. Asmodean sat in the corner, providing musical background, for some reason recieving a raised eyebrow or two from the nobles, but he sat there stubbornly playing all the way through the meeting which... did not quite go as expected, but certainly not as bad as it could have.

Then al'Thor stopped Dyelin and had a very quiet, private conversation he returned from distracted, pale, staring up at the stained glass windows depicting Queens. The nobles had departed only for Bashere to stride in. My Lord Dragon he said, or something similar, Asmodean's recollection was fuzzy, there is someone who says he comes from Lord Brend.

That was the exact moment when Asmodean lost control of his fingers and the harp fell to the floor, the dull clang of wood against rock echoing in the suddenly silent chamber. He forgot about picking it up, though, as soon as the said messenger was brought in. Asmodean couldn't sense the inverted weave, but could very well recognize it by the look on the man's face. His suspicion was confirmed when the man had spoken, through that awful grin with eyes full of fear, in Sammael's voice, telling of the future, a truce, concern over The Dragon biting off more than he can chew even if Asmodean or Semirhage didn't take him from behind while he's busy with it, a mutual non-attacking pact until the Last Battle itself. Asmodean, feeling personally attacked, picked up the harp in a white-knuckled grip to keep his fingers from engaging in a form of Handtalk much, much older, simpler, and cruder than the one Far Dareis Mai employed, which had consisted of only one sign the meaning of which was not printable in the slightest.

Rand had seized saidin, given a very lovely speech listing off Sammael's many war crimes which Asmodean was quite, quite sure he never brought up, and promised there would be no truce with the Shadow. Asmodean knew full well how that would end, so he turned his head because that was not a weave he wanted to see at work again.

After the shock wore off, al'Thor decided to go to Cairhien, Aviendha metaphorically ripped the Pattern so she would get to join him, while Asmodean had tagged along just because he suddenly didn't feel safe anywhere on his own with the shield blocking saidin. Especially not with the persisting ache in his muscles which had apparently reached its plateau and decided it was here to stay.

Cairhien youth tried to imitate ji'e'toh, failed miserably but didn't even think of faltering, there was fighting in the lands beyond the Aiel Waste - not a good sign at all, no matter what the Aiel themselves thought, Rand went to visit his Herid Fel in his school and Asmodean wandered through it himself, looking over the inventions these kids came up with, a small, approving smile dancing on his lips as he saw the seeds of some of the great achievements of his own Age planted right here, in this dusty building.

And the next day they were back in Caemlyn, there was an Ogier delegation, a series of maps dug up which Asmodean had decided to sneak into his own chambers to study while al'Thor went to Shadar Logoth to ward the Waygate. Asmodean grabbed a handful of maps and retreated into his rooms, making up for thousands of lost years. It was actually rather simple to figure out which maps were the oldest, though there wasn't a single one depicting the land from the Age of Legends. There was a small, dull ache in his chest at the repeated realization that Shorelle was now just a name to everyone, that he was perhaps the only person who remembered her stone buildings and narrow streets, steep white cliffs and gentle arches. The ache was merely a ghost of the one he had felt months ago, while crossing the mountains with the Aiel, but in a way it was deeper, more profound than even the constant pain in his bones. He felt saidin being channeled and sank underneath his covers, supposing al'Thor would not mind. He needed silence.

As if answering his silent wish, it really was a relative silence the days had passed in, never mind the arrival of White Tower embassy in Cairhien or an attempted, but thankfully failed, assassination attempt on al'Thor. Typical, for a Dragon. Asmodean had found new and new ways to pass the time while Rand was away on his little trips, new hobbies to fill the silent nights when he wasn't tired enough to bother dreaming the same dream again and again. One time he did attempt to channel but it sent an immediate, terrifying pain through his entire body, strong enough to knock him clean off of his feet to the ground. He didn't try channeling anymore.

Instead, one dull afternoon, he found himself discussing lace with an old woman who was sewing peacefully under a tree in one of Caemlyn's many parks. During a twenty minute conversation he basically found out her son was a soldier and married into Cairhien during the Aiel War, he sent a pigeon every few months or so, oh, but master Natael was quite polite, he reminded her of her son, that lil' Dragon was a really sweet kid (Asmodean almost bit off his tongue trying not to laugh), it sure was nice of someone wearing so much lace to start wond'rin about where it came from. The most important thing, however, was that she pulled a small scrap of fabric, needle and thread from her small basket and showed him how to make the simplest patterns on his own. A twenty minute conversation managed to turn into an entire afternoon where Asmodean forced his aching fingers to create something other than music. When he felt saidin in the palace, sign that al'Thor was there, on his way back he stopped in a small street store and bought needle and thread.

Al'Thor had brought him along to Cairhien, met the Aes Sedai without him but Asmodean could sense him channeling almost the entire duration of the visit, small amounts but still enough to feel from the other room, perfect background to stabbing himself in the finger for the fifteenth time.

* * *

 

One morning, after a particularly bad series of the same dream over and over, bad in the sense that he was too tired to stay awake for too long after waking up, Asmodean wandered the hallways tiredly. The fatigue only seemed to, for some reason, contribute to the pain shooting through his limbs so he didn't even notice he was approaching Rand until he almost bumped into him.

"My Lord Dragon" he bowed cautiously, keeping in mind said Lord Dragon's horrible temper from the day before.

"Light, Natael, what happened to your breath?" Rand blurted out and Asmodean cringed. He had almost gotten used to the morning grave rot by now and forgot how upsetting the reveal it came from his own throat was.

"Never mind. Come along." Rand said, shrugging and making his way down the hallway towards the Travelling chamber.

Asmodean could only follow as instructed. Halfway there the rest of the Maidens joined them and Asmodean closed his eyes to try and fail to keep the headache at bay. A maid brought a letter from the Sea Folk. It went ignored. Al'Thor took them to Caemlyn and illuminated their way out of the throne chamber into his own. Asmodean followed, not daring to touch the harp and disturb the early morning silence.

Aviendha stalked out of the bedchamber, butt naked, froze dead in her steps and stalked right back the moment she spotted al'Thor. Asmodean didn't even find it in himself to laugh at it. He heavily collapsed onto a chair, staring out into the still dark sky,  now aware of the stench he carried with him and the accursed pain. He clenched his fists on the table and relaxed them, trying to focus only on the throbbing in his hands, as Aviendha gave al'Thor a ribbing over him leaving without her again, breathing deeply and swallowing in an attempt to get rid of the stench in his mouth as the First Maid informed the Dragon over everything that happened without him. When al'Thor started reading the letters he forced his legs to carry him to the corner of the room where he poured himself a glass of water,  swishing it in his mouth, and for some reason not even that managed to do much even though it usually helped.

He stayed in his corner though as Sulin, the wonderful, terrifying Maiden entered, acting as just another Palace servant, and gave Rand a letter even though she would obviously much rather eat it herself. That... was certainly something. Aiel views of honor were terrifying at times. Sulin dashed out, al'Thor mirrored Asmodean in his complete misunderstanding of the Aiel  _toh_. Asmodean watched him with indifference as he opened the letter and read it, then seemed to take his time studying it. Probably another Daes Dae'mar machination, for he wouldn't be so focused.

The door gently opened and both Asmodean and Rand looked towards it, saw nothing and returned to what they were occupying themselves with. Al'Thor rubbed his nose. Asmodean wondered if scrubbing his throat dry with dish soap would help get rid of the stench.

“Jalani and I will take our places outside,” Nandera said. Al'Thor nodded.

Aviendha put a hand on his arm, then snatched it away. “Rand al’Thor, I must talk with you seriously.”

Rand suddenly dropped the letter, pushing Aviendha away from himself hard enough to make her topple over and seized  _saidin_. Asmodean jumped to his feet, dimly aware of someone else channeling nearby, frantically looking around, and - there it was. There was a Gray Man, barely visible even though he tried so hard to keep an eye on him, knife out and darting forward for Aviendha. Al'Thor's coils of Air wrapped around him almost contemptuously. And then a bar of fire flashed from behind Rand, burning a hole in the Gray Man's chest.

Dead, he suddenly was as visible as anyone else. Aviendha, just starting to gather herself on the floor, gave a startled yelp, and most certainly embraced saidar. Nandera’s hand jerked toward her veil with a bit-off exclamation, and Jalani half-raised hers. 

Rand let the corpse fall, but he held on to saidin as he turned to confront Taim, the glorious, terrifying bastard, standing in the doorway of his bedchamber.

“Why did you kill him?” Rand's voice was cold, sharpened with hatred. “I had him captured; he might have told me something, maybe even who sent him. What are you doing here anyway, sneaking in through my bedroom?” 

Taim strolled in completely at ease, wearing a black coat with dragons entwined around the sleeves in blue and gold, looking even more like a noble from a forgotten Age. Aviendha scrambled to her feet, quick to dagger, Nandera and Jalani had veiled and seemed just as ready to use their spears. Taim ignored them, eyes darting to the corner where Asmodean still stood, only capable of giving him a small, respectful bow. Taim released the Power,as relaxed as ever. That peculiar almost-smile quirked his lips as he glanced at the dead Gray Man.

“Nasty things, the Soulless.” Anybody else would have shivered “I came to your balcony by gateway because I thought you would want to hear the news right away.” 

Asmodean held his breath.

“Somebody who learns too fast?” Rand broke in, and Taim flashed that half-smile again. 

“No, not one of the Forsaken in disguise, not unless he’s managed to disguise himself as a boy not much past twenty. His name is Jahar Narishma, and he has the spark, though it has not come out yet. Men usually show later than women. You should return to the school; you would be surprised by the changes.”

Rand said nothing, only glanced at the corpse on the carpet. 

Taim grimaced, but he was not out of countenance, only irritated. “Believe me, I wish he was still alive as much as you do. I saw him and acted without thinking; the last thing I want is to see you dead.  
You seized him the moment I channeled, but it was too late to stop.”

The Power filled Rand again, although to Asmodean it seemed out of place. He took a sip of water to moisten his lips.

"Thank you." saying that had the same effect as anouncing loud and clear that... he was a Forsaken or something? All eyes were on him. He stubbornly returned Taim's stare and continued "Had you been a moment late..." Rand cleared his throat, offended "And had Lord Dragon not realized what was about to happen..." a little bit of mental gymnastics later he just gave up "Thank you, Taim"

He gave another elegant bow, almost hearing his waist and legs scream in pain, and stubbornly stood in his little corner as if challenging anyone to say anything. They didn't. Taim's face betrayed surprise for just a moment, a moment longer than it would usually betray anything, and he gave a light bow of his head to acknowledge the thanks. Asmodean sipped on his water, thinking.

Rand took a chair beside the table where his sword lay atop the Dragon Scepter. Taim bent to pick up the letter and glanced at it before handing it to Rand with a minimal bow. Rand stuffed the parchment into his pocket. Nothing shook Taim; nothing seemed to completely disturb his balance. 

“The way you were all for going after the Aes Sedai, I’m surprised you don’t suggest striking at Sammael." Rand started, with a certain tone in his voice that made Asmodean want to throw the cup of water at him. "You and me together, maybe a few of the stronger students, dropping right on top of him in Illian through a gateway. That man had to come from Sammael.”

Either al'Thor was an absolute idiot, or he didn't know anything about Sammael. Asmodean realized he was absently weighting the cup in his hand, quickly took another sip from it and instead mentally wrote down a long, long string of insults. Taim was not that reckless, and there was no way of knowing who sent the Gray Man because now he was dead.

“Perhaps,” Taim said shortly, glancing at the corpse on the ground. “I would give a great deal to be sure.” 

Asmodean smiled and inhaled deeply in triumph while Taim continued. 

“As for Illian, I doubt it would be as simple as disposing of a pair of  Aes Sedai. I keep thinking what I would do in Sammael’s place. I would have Illian warded in boxes, so if a man even thought of channeling, I’d know right where he was, and I would burn even the ground to ash before he had time to take a breath.”

A few things clicked into place and Asmodean stared at the cup in his hand, wondering if he could throw it at his own head with enough force to give himself a concussion. Al'Thor was looking at Taim with a lot of not quite identifiable emotions, though had he known better, Asmodean would have guessed jealousy was one of them.

“You’ve delivered your news. I suggest you go see to training this Jahar Narishma. Train him well. He may have to use his ability soon enough.” Rand finally said, in a tone Asmodean didn't like at all. 

For a moment Taim’s dark eyes glittered, then he bowed his head slightly. Without a word he seized saidin and opened a gateway right there. Rand sat, very very still until the gateway closed behind him. Then he turned to Asmodean with a long, judging look and opened his mouth to speak.

"It's already a thankless job he's doing. And he noticed the Gray Man just in time." Asmodean cut in. "And not even you can claim he's stupid" he added with a hint of dry accusation, part of him screaming about how stupid saying that was and how absurdly  _right_ it felt. 

When Rand, Aviendha and the Maidens kept staring at him with unreadable expressions he inhaled and retreated into his room without a word, not wanting to see the direction this morning would take. And he had a bad breath to finally get rid of.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is Shorelle now.  
> 


	4. PSA: hiatus

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright. To paraphrase a meme-level serbian proverb which has already fallen out of use, I'm crazy, not stupid. I can tell how subpar the writing on this is, not only compared to other authors but also compared to the things i write that are literally anything else. I can see how bad the grammar and poor the editing is, how the things i write myself don't fit in at all with the copypasted bits how it's basically not even looked over once before i throw out the next chapter, and it sucks.  
> So im taking a break from this until i can get myself back to optimal writing performance, which will probably be some point in june after I'm done with the college entry exams. I feel like this fic deserves far more effort to go into it than im capable of churning out at this point, and it _will_ get it, but not... now.

[will be replaced with the actual chapter in some point in the future]


End file.
